


his sorrows know how to swim

by elliotwritesgarbage



Series: sickfics [11]
Category: The Last Hours Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Emetophilia, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Sick Character, Vomiting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 13:13:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19229833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elliotwritesgarbage/pseuds/elliotwritesgarbage
Summary: Matthew continues to rack up sorrows to drown. This time it goes a little too far.





	his sorrows know how to swim

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to Tumblr 14/06/2019.

There was a commotion at the front door while everyone in the sitting room sipped their after-dinner drinks. A scuffle, and some swearing, not uncommonly heard in the Institute when it was the home of several rowdy children and the training headquarters for their parabatai.

“That’ll be Jamie, then,” Will said, looking from his wife, who looked back at him with a look of puzzlement, to his brother in law. His sister had long since retired with her youngest son, Alexander, still only an infant.

There was more shuffling, and shushing, and a sudden, protesting voice shouting, “I said I’m fine!”

Another small scuffle. Then a bang, as if someone had fallen. The three adults in the sitting room stood very quickly, leaving Lucie in their wake, enraptured by her writing in a manner, not unlike Christopher. They came upon the scene very suddenly, none prepared for it. Bleeding, wounded Shadowhunters were common, coming to the institute as to have a place to meet easily with a silent brother. Usually, they were flanked by their friends, family, or parabatai. This was a man with his parabatai and their mutual friend. Where blood was expected, there was only a slimy, half-dry slick soaked through the dense fabric of Matthew’s usually impeccable waistcoat. He looked utterly dissolute, with pink cheeks and smears of pinkish vomit on his chin. He was suspended between James and Anna, with an arm around either of their shoulders and wore only one shoe, the other discarded somewhere unknown to anyone, likely including Matthew himself.

Anna looked annoyed but no more than James, who wore it to hide the worry seeping from his furrowed expression.

“I think it best to call upon Zachariah,” Tessa announced. Jamie nodded and Matthew groaned, heaving up another spell of vomit onto his clothing, which in turn splattered onto the carpeted floor, and his feet, in their various states of undress.

—

Matthew was sat up on a couch, with a metal bucket under his chin. For now, it was empty, but so long as Tessa kept pushing him to drink water, it wouldn’t remain that way.

“We only left him a few minutes,” Anna tried to explain. “I don’t know what happened.”

Will said, “I suspect Matthew doesn’t either. He’s gotten himself in quite a state. What were you drinking?” He addressed it to Matthew, although he didn’t care who answered him. Matthew, whose eyes seemed desperate to close and whose skin had taken on the pallor of an old peach, didn’t seem likely to pipe up.

“Gin,” Matthew did answer. The mention of it made him want to heave again. He remembered what happened, and vividly, although the alcohol was beginning to drag away the memories he had so struggled to make. He would not tell anyone with these people around.

He had met someone. Someone beautiful and tall, with brown hair and brown eyes and an enchanting way of speaking, even slurred with the effects of the late night. Someone who made Matthew want to be true to his Quixotic persona. Matthew had walked out of the pub with him. He had kissed him. He had been shoved away. Shoved away by revolted, large hands, demanding he desists before he called for the police. Charge him with indecency, he cried. Matthew had fled. It was only the newest in the extensive list of mistakes he had racked up. Mistakes which he must hold close to himself, never tell a soul, although some days it felt he might explode from the unrelenting shame.

Alcohol worked well to dull the senses, to make laughter easier and guilt more far away. Tonight though, he just felt ill. Ill from the gin, and from the fear, slowly eating away at his abdomen until he might die.

Everyone around him was so painfully quiet. There was hardly the rustle of clothing, just a million sets of piercing eyes boring into him that he might collapse dead with a million judgemental holes poked through his conscience. Gabriel was sat in the corner still, hardly moving but appearing deep in thought. This was not Matthew’s home, not his parents, not his cousin and not his uncle, sitting in an immaculate waistcoat, his hands clasped in front of his chest. At the very least there should be Schadenfreude, paying him back for ruining a quiet night between family. He deserved nothing less.

Tessa swept into the room, bringing with her Zachariah. Matthew could not call him anything more familiar.

Will explained the situation while Matthew drifted in and out of consciousness, only wishing that Jamie would sit beside him, that he might have some comfort that he so dearly did not deserve. Matthew was given a new bottle to drink from, retrieved by Tessa from the infirmary.

“A mix of herbs,” Zachariah explained. “To rid the stomach of all matter of poisons.”

Time was not tangible in this liminal space. Matthew had fallen through the looking glass to find a world that made as little sense to him drunk and it did sober. The mere thought spun his head.

Matthew moved the bucket out of the way and went to reach for the bottle. The bucket was slowly pushed back onto his lap by Brother Zachariah, understanding that Matthew himself did not understand.

“I’m not a drunk.” He spoke dejectedly.

“‘If you ever know a man who tries to drown his sorrows, kindly inform him his sorrows know how to swim’.” Brother Zachariah’s voice, or lack thereof, Matthew was in no state to think of such things, was not unkind. It still pushed a hot poker through Matthew, turning the slow burning of pain in his gut to a stabbing, unbearable burden.

“Oh,” he whispered. The bottle nearly tumbled out of his hand, bewildering Matthew, who was unaware he had taken it and drunk more than half. Before it fell to the floor it was caught by Jamie, who had taken to standing off to the side of him, close enough to reach out and touch. Before Matthew could, he was retching into the bucket, unable to stop a ceaseless flow of spoiled-tasting gin and food. He knew he sounded horrific. The gagging felt like it was tearing his throat, his stomach hurt more from the draught than any alcohol he had consumed, and the vile fluid was beginning to pour from his nose as well as his mouth, burning him so badly tears fell freely down his cheeks.

Such conduct was unbefitting of a gentleman, intentional or otherwise. He clutched the sides of the bucket until his fingers went white, and tried to smother a sob. He thought perhaps he’d passed it as a heave until a hand gently graced his back and began to move in slow, smooth circles. Another joined, lower down, both patting awkwardly, doing little to soothe the horrific twisting of his abdomen, and all the while making him feel as light as he had felt since the evening began.

He looked up, loath to continue staring into the bucket of his vomit. He was far, far from done. Whatever Brother Zachariah had given him was still roiling within his stomach, turning over and over in a way that would sink any ship upon its surface. He must look an absolute fright, there was vomit that dripped from his chin, clung to his lips in gelatinous, sticky strands, painted his upper lip and the rims of his nostrils. Fresh tears continued to track down his face.

A handkerchief was pressed into Matthew’s hand, and he eagerly brought it to his face, wiping away the evidence and hiding his shame in one sensible action.

“He will be all right,” Brother Zachariah spoke in everyone’s minds. “He simply needs to rid himself of the rest of it. There is no need for everyone to remain with him.”

The family decided who would remain amongst themselves, unbeknownst to Matthew. Lucy, who had fled as soon as the vomiting started, was followed then by her mother, her cousin, Anna, and her uncle, Gabriel until only Jamie and his father remained.

Matthew slumped back, feeling wretched. There would undoubtedly be conversation following this recent lapse of judgement (or moral character, as one might put it). Jamie sat beside him, ensuring the bucket remained in Matthew’s lap with the side of his thigh.

“I saw what happened.”

Matthew took this calmly, no longer possessing any energy to panic, simply letting the words wash over him.

“It’s all right, Matthew. It will be all right.”


End file.
